


Homo Ludens

by Lil_Bel



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:46:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Bel/pseuds/Lil_Bel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re out there Reservoir Dogs fandom, all ten of you (+ me).  This is just a lick of creamsicle, mostly to help feed the Orange/White monkey riding real hard on my back--and biting me!  I haven’t been incited to write fic in fifteen years, but Larry and Freddy started talking to me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homo Ludens

Three weeks.   
That’s all; three short weeks until the next scheduled delivery to Karina’s Wholesale Diamonds: two million dollars in high-quality cut stones. Not a lot of time twenty-one days, but somehow slow to pass, dragging, needing to be filled.  
In between casing Karina’s in prep for Big Boss Joe Cabot’s plan to rob the place, and meeting to go over and over and over the timing and logistics of the job, his hand-picked six-man crew had a lot of hours to spend. And did so, indulging in dive bars, strip clubs, the track, hookers and blow.  
Never all together; in pairs mostly. The order was anonymity, so the whole crew went by fake names, an innocuous sprinkling of colors bestowed on them by Cabot: Mr. Pink, Mr. Brown, Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, Mr. Blonde, and Mr. White. If you didn’t know your accomplice’s real name, you couldn’t give him up to the law. In theory.  
Mr. Orange and Mr. White fell into one of the pairs, drawn to each other almost right away. They were twenty years apart in age, the experienced criminal “White”--thief, robber, and murderer Larry Dimmick--took the younger “Orange”--undercover cop Freddy Newandyke, sent in to bring the curtain down on all these men--under his wing.   
They passed a lot of their time together, shared countless meals, busted each other’s balls constantly, laughed a lot, talked about stuff they’d done in the past--without damning details--what they wanted to do in the future (a bunch of bullshit lies on Freddy’s part; naturally he’d go back to being a cop. But sweet, earnest hopes from White made Freddy feel a little sad for him and, guilty). The longer he hung out with White, the guiltier.   
This chunk of time running up to the day of the robbery were all the hours they were ever going to have together. But only the young detective knew that without a doubt. The end of the whole damned deal, arrests, trials, and imprisonment, was inevitable, and happening very soon.   
Despite being ordered not to get personal, not even to share their real names with each other, they clicked.   
Something else was happening, a variable neither man had expected under these circumstances: they were intensely attracted to each other.  
Neither had ever confided to another living soul that they were gay; being queer wouldn’t’ve done either of them any good in their chosen professions. “Could wreck everything,” White kept warning.  
Both men had been around the block and knew they should just back away. But it got to be something that would not be restrained, a bad fever that couldn’t break without the real cure.  
On a rainy night sitting in the front seat of White’s car, unable to stay physically apart one more minute, they let it happen, hungry kisses and shared hand-jobs, raw declarations said out loud at last.  
Hard to define what they had. Sex so good it blew their minds, the emotional compatibility, warmth, affection... Being men, reticent about man-to-man feelings, they thought of it as, well, a very strong like. With amazing benefits.

+++

Late Friday, a gorgeous, gorgeous LA night that slipped so seamlessly into early Saturday. Pounding tequila shots, playing pool, they’d closed down Bubbles Bar and Grill at 2 a.m., poured themselves into a cab for the ride back to Freddy’s place where the party continued after a fashion. A nightcap, a little blow (yeah, one of them was a cop but all--all of it, he’d tried to tell himself--was in service to the job). And then a session of uninhibited, noisy sex, passing out after, tangled sloppily in each other.

+++

“Yecch.” Freddy stared at the droopy hungover face in the mirror. His cheek was sheet-creased and he could definitely use a shave.  
He washed his scuzzy face, brushed his teeth, so glad to get rid of the godawful taste in his mouth. Clad only in his boxers, lit cigarette in his mouth, he padded barefoot toward his kitchen. He paused at the open bedroom door. Larry was stirring, showing signs of waking up. Freddy watched his tanned arm reach out across the sheet, searching, and felt humbled. The older guy had it real bad for him, one little push away from being in love, if not already there. And it went both ways.  
Face still knotted with sleep, Freddy put on a pot of coffee and began hunting through his kitchen cabinets, scratched the back of his thigh as Count Chocula leered down at him. He poured two cups of coffee, one for himself, stood at the counter coming back to life as he sipped.  
A toilet flushed from the end of the hall and soon a familiar warmth pressed him from behind; fur and skin, muscle, the faint smell of soap.  
“Mornin’.” Larry greeted him, also wearing just his boxers, smooching the younger man’s nape kindly.  
“Mornin’,” Freddy said, humming at the contact. “Want coffee? Gotta be black; ‘cause I got no sugar, no cream.”  
“Fine with me. What about food? I’m starvin’ here.”  
“There’s Count Chocula.” Freddy lifted a shoulder as only a young single man could: helpless, clueless. As if to say, ‘I don’t know where food comes from.’  
“Bacon? Eggs?” Larry implored.  
“Sorry. My fridge is not food’s best friend. There’s a quart of milk in there, reasonably fresh, half a sixpack, and a slice of pizza of unknown date. That thing’s hard as a rock.”  
“What the hell are you livin’ on?! You ever heard of nutrition?”  
“I don’t buy food, White. I’m never fuckin’ here!”  
“Fuckin’ kids, livin’ on air and fun.”  
Freddy turned to face him, heavy-lidded hoodlum-eyes mischievous. “Fuckin’ old people, just wantin’ their comforts,” he sneered. “Shit like ‘breakfast’ and ‘clean sheets’. ‘Good-lookin’ young boyfriends’...”  
“Shuddup,” Larry scolded, mock-punching Freddy’s outthrust chin. “You’re anything but good-looking.” He was lying; they both knew it. He adored Freddy’s face. Sometimes he’d just take it in his big hand and turn it this way and that, just to look at; that strong nose, the bright, languid eyes. “And those sheets need changing. Believe it.”  
“Well, yeah. Now they do.” Freddy giggled, pulling down two clean-ish bowls for the cereal.  
“No,” Larry protested, taking them, putting them back. “Fuck no. I’m an adult. I can’t eat that stuff. We’ll get dressed; I’ll buy you breakfast.”  
“Don’t have to twist my arm, you treatin’ for a change.”  
“Fuck you. I pick up the check, all the time, ‘cause you’re always broke.”  
“Whatever. Let me grab a shower.”  
“Uh-uh. Me first. ‘Cause of that ‘treatin’ crack.”  
“No way.” Freddy started past Larry, but a strong hand grasped his upper arm and stopped him.  
“Not so fast.”  
Laughing, Freddy darted agilely away from his older lover and started down the hall, but found himself grabbed by the back of his underwear, giving Larry a nice glimpse of creamy ass, high and tight like the rest of Freddy.  
“Let go! Cut it out, man!”  
Larry manhandled him determinedly behind himself and made for the bathroom.  
Freddy took a chance and jumped onto his back, weight taking Larry--both of them--down to the floor. He got up to run, but was caught by an ankle and fell hard onto his stomach and folded arms. “Motherfuck!”  
Larry got up using Freddy’s head for leverage, and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door. The shower came on, and, leaping up, Freddy could hear White cackling.  
“White, c’mon. Lemme in. White?” He waited. Nothing. “Hey, wouldn’t it be better if we use the shower together? Use less water? You know, there’s a drought situation.”  
“Like I care about that? I can get shot and killed in my line of work. A fuckin’ drought is the least of my worries.”  
“Extra pair of hands? We could do each other’s back.”  
“Hah! Kid, you know and I know. If we get in here naked together, we’ll never leave the apartment!”  
“Damn.” Freddy turned the knob, in vain. He let a moment pass. “Hey, it’s lonesome out here, White. Open the door; this ain’t no fun anymore.” He touched the door, leaned on it. “I want to see you naked, baby,” he said softly, mouth close to the door, knowing exactly what he was doing. “Don’t you want to see me?”  
Silence. He could practically see Larry’s expression through the door and laughed to himself.  
“Goddamnit, get in here.” The latch clicked, the door opened and a wet, soapy hand yanked Freddy inside.

+++ 

“Think you put my back out,” Larry complained, massaging his lower back with both hands as they strolled together into the bedroom, damp and very, very clean. The bedroom was still only half-painted, the ladder and painting equipment almost fixtures now. They cooperated in changing the sheets. “Jumpin’ on me like that, you crazy little shit.”  
“Mrs. Sanchez downstairs uses a walker,” Freddy teased, chuckling. He sat on the edge of the clean bed, bouncing, reached for his cigarettes, lit one. “Want me to go ask her if you can borrow it?”  
“I’ve already taken you down once today,” Larry told him, warningly, twinkling humor in his eyes. “You wanna go again?”  
Freddy laughed. “So, it’s ‘go time’?”  
“Huh?”  
“Never mind. Seinfeld reference.”  
“Fuck that.” Larry spread his arms in “come at me” mode. “Let’s see what you got, big shot.”   
Freddy, who’d parked his cigarette in the ashtray, picked up a pillow and slung it at White, hitting him right in the face.  
“You’re dead,” Larry growled and dived, and Freddy exploded with laughter, scrambling to get away. He didn’t make it--didn’t really want to. Fine with him if his friend--yes, friend--got the upper hand. Larry rolled over onto him, trapped his open palms above his head. They were both out of breath, laughing.  
One look later, Larry was letting his arms go, and they were kissing instead, slow, the way they both liked it.  
“Your hair’s all mussed up,” Freddy observed when they parted, looking Larry over with a fond smile. What could he say? Always had a thing for older guys, especially ones wih warm elfin eyes, deep-cut laugh lines and vintage dimples. White was a straight-up killer, only there was way more to him than that. Intelligent, thoughtful, he was a nice man. “Look adorable.”  
“Now there’s a word I’m positive I never been associated with,” Larry commented as Freddy combed his hair back for him with his fingers. “By anybody.” There was the barest whisper of an old story there in the way Larry said the word.  
“Maybe nobody ever liked you like I do,” Freddy said.  
“Think so?” Larry asked, gently.  
“Yeah,” Freddy said. “I like you a lot.” He quieted, seemed to grow more serious, the sun going out of his eyes, cloud over a warm green ocean. “Whole lot.” Without a doubt more than he should.  
“Same here,” Larry said. “I wasn’t expectin’ it. Wasn’t expecting you. Turned me upside down when we met. And now. First time in my life I ain’t ashamed of being queer. Didn’t know I could have what I got with you now.”  
“Me neither,” Freddy said, pensive.  
“More than just ‘like’ though,” Larry went on, gaze following his own hand as it caressed down Freddy’s chest, along his side, the backs of fingers trailing over freckled skin. So gentle he was with the person he thought of as his boy, his young thief. “Huh? Maybe.”  
“Maybe,” Freddy agreed. “I think, yeah.”  
“That OK?”  
Freddy nodded. “Yeah. It’s OK.” Then he hugged Larry tight, hiding his two faces.

**Author's Note:**

> The phrase “homo ludens” means “man at play,” meant to represent the same category of species classification as homo sapiens (“wise man”) though it’s a coined, not a scientific term.


End file.
